I don’t remember the name of the bar, at the end
Of the Metal Workers’ Hall of Culture in Chiliabinsk.
I remember only the girl whom every fifteen minutes
Came from behind the counter to collect the glasses into
A red plastic bowl.
She skipped from table to table, her high shoes,
Clicking out the smell of heaps of loot,
A fur hat spread war snow on her forehead
And fumes of alcohol blurred her face furled like a white flag.
There is, said the man beside me, no woman who isn’t beautiful
There is too little vodka.


Translated by: Vivian Eden